


The Grudge

by Tammany



Series: Irene's Rise, Mycroft's Fall [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Bondage, Career destruction, Dark, Darkish Greg, Domination, Humiliation, M/M, Multi, Non-consensual sex, Other, Public Sex, Vengeance., Whump!Mycroft, bestiality references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-24
Updated: 2020-06-24
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:42:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24891784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: I dunno what the current flood of BDSM is coming from. Maybe it's too hot. Maybe I'm grumpy. Or maybe it just is what it is.THIS one is definitely dark BDSM. Darkish Greg. Whump Mycroft. Quite a bit of what can't really be considered anything BUT non-com and rape in the context of the story, even if it's a voluntary fantasy for the reader, all in the name of villainous vengeance. The return of Irene Adler. The Fall of Mycroft Holmes. Fucking. References to bestiality activities. Betrayals of many sorts.In spite of all that, I think it may be a happy ending? Sort of? At the end all the major players are to at least some degree happy and fulfilled, if not good or virtuous in any sane definition of the word. I never seem to succeed at proper evil. But this one sure as hell also does not conform to my more common consensual, happy good.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Mycroft/others
Series: Irene's Rise, Mycroft's Fall [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1803475
Comments: 3
Kudos: 23





	The Grudge

Reeny carried grudges, she did, she did. She carried them long, and she carried them hard, and she finished them better than damned near anyone—often without lifting more than a finger to bring it all to a conclusion.

And Mycroft Holmes? He was one of Reeny’s grudges in waiting, just floating outside her grip. She’d never blamed Sherlock in quite the way she blamed Mycroft, who swept her in after Sherlock destroyed her, and used her for years after for the sake of Great Britain and MI-6. Not sexually—though he was in no way ever slow to suggest that this woman, or that man, might be usefully seduced to the side of the angels. (“Seduced” to be taken quite literally.) He just recognized in Reeny a brilliant, attractive tool, and used her as such—and no more.

He was cold. He was dry. He was as gay as she was, and then some. And he’d built an armor of personal pride she longed to see destroyed.

Unlike many, she didn’t need to be the active author of her own enemy’s destruction, though. She was just as happy to give him over to his own nemesis, and _watch._

_Watch. While gloating._

Had Moriarty been alive, she’d have brought him in. He’d been such a creative little sadist. Failing that, she had Holmes delivered naked, bound, and drugged to Moran. Moran, on her explicit advice, had made gleeful use of his present, then passed him within a day to Chantique, whose reputation for character destruction was earned. Within another twenty four hours Mycroft Holmes’ name no longer carried weight with Whitehall; he was on record as missing under suspicion; and there were a series of photos so scandalous and humiliating making the rounds of the lowest of England’s tabloids as to have raised up a cry for updated backing of decency laws.

The chronology of the photos was quite long, going back through Mycroft’s entire career. It had been faked. The various ages Mycroft appeared to have been were also faked. Chantique was skilled at her work, including digital manipulation of images. No one—NO ONE—would ever prove Mycroft had not been where her pictures suggested he had been, with the various enemies of Jolly Old England he appeared to be, er, coupled with…or performing for. Or serving under. Sometimes the specifics were a bit had to sort out, lost in the pure submissive funk.

Chantique herself had made sure he did what he appeared to do. Even the shot with the remarkably well-endowed Great Dane with its maw around the back of Mycroft’s neck, and the rough-shod men around the two placing bets and drinking booze out of the bottle—one with his hand squeezing “the meat,” and grinning like a devil.

In that photo the studded collar had been particularly impressive, as had the tight pull of the leash. Mycroft had clearly surrendered, in tears, after some degree of physical encouragement.

On the third day Mycroft was “found” by police called to preserve the peace in what appeared to be an equally shocking scene in a bordello on the East End, drugged and bound, with a cage on his cock. Paparazzi had received a similar call: the ensuing photos were considered amusing by many. One superb shot of the bedroom showed Mycroft well impaled with a dildo of enormous scope. It was captioned “Who knew he had it in ‘im,” as the actress said to the Bishop.

Within a week his public nicknames were “Whitehall’s Bitch,” “The Whore of Babylon,” and “The Open-Ended Deal.”

No one stood for him. Not at any level of government. When he’d been gone all had been in a panic. Once found? He could not be arrested on any particular crime—but he didn’t have to be. He was unhired at the speed of light, cast aside by all public figures, and declared pariah by all of his associates. Even his brother said little, and what he did say was, “It’s not my fault the fat bastard can’t cover his bloated arse.” His mother was on record as saying, tartly, “That boy just can’t stop acting out.”

In less than five days Mycroft Holmes found himself with no job, a reputation that stank to heaven, plastered with lasting but ungrounded rumors that his sexual perversions were associated with various acts of political indiscretion and even treason. He had no remaining friends of record, no allies, and while he was in possession of a safe and secure fortune, few thought it would be much comfort. When he disappeared again within another 24 hours of the events, almost everyone, including Sherlock, assumed he’d used a bit of that fortune to disappear. Most, including Sherlock, thought “Good riddance.” Only a very few wondered if he’d been…taken up again.

Only two major figures in Holmes’ former life so much as paused to doubt. Anthea was quite certain he’d been set up: but she was Mycroft’s student, and had been carefully trained when to cut all ties and play innocent. Given her former association with Mycroft, she had work to do to retain her own career. She did as her senior had instructed, and covered her arse.

Greg Lestrade…doubted.

He also tried not to look too closely at the filthy photos. A few of the shots were distracting, and raised questions he didn’t want to answer. That wasn’t all the photos raised.

Greg was a good man. Honorable. He had respected Holmes. But respect is one thing. The libido is another. Greg had a taste for the rough life and a boss who just begged to be—

Well. To be made to beg. Mycroft Holmes was designed to be disciplined.

In the meantime, She-Who-Carried-Grudges sat over lemon tea with Chantique, sipping the sweet, fragrant brew and nibbling tart lemon shortbread cookies and makng out idly as together they watched a training session with Chantique’s most recent gift from Reeny. He was crying, as he serviced two former Met police from specialist arms teams—SWAT teams. The one behind was thrashing him with a baton. The one in front slapped him lazily, and tugged on the ziplock restraint that held the man’s hands behind his back.

“You’re keeping him, then?” Reeny asked, head on Chantique’s shoulder, fingers pinching her near nipple.

“Mmmm. For now. You think of such nice presents for me. Do you know we swept him up after they threw him out of the Met lockup? Dressed in athletic trousers and a woman’s blouse because that was all the Met had available in Lost and Found that had passed the due date?”

Her companion smirked. There was no other word for it. “So…?”

“Oh, for now he’s a profit looking to be made. Another three weeks and I’ll look up his enemies, and see if any want him dead. Or…in their intimate service.”

“Mmm.” Her companion drew her knees up and hugged them tight, rose-lipped mouth in a tight moue. “Poor baby,” she said, with no sincerity. “I might recommend some possible buyers.”

“Oh, do. He won’t be fresh here for long. I’m already considering offers.” She raised her chin, and called to the two black-clad rapists, “Make him take part, boys. Not just passive. Tell you what—ask him to choose which of you is going to take him over and take him walkies in the main room…Remember, I’m charging $6000 to fuck him on the casino floor, and $20000 to spit roast him with the dog, complete with trophy photos at the end, with baby boy there on his victor’s lap.”

The following training game took barely five minutes to play out, even though Mycroft Holmes had heard the entire conversation. He was the kind of broken that has not begun to rally. His spirit was crushed.

She who carried grudges was delighted.

“Better idea: I want him,” she said to Chantique after arrangements had been made and Mycroft had kissed a SWAT officer’s feet and been dragged by his leash out of the private suite.

“Reeny—really? You’ve always kept your hands clean.”

“I have a plan,” she said, scowling—thinking of past grudges. “He was a problem, Chantique.”

“You’re the one who taught me: never do your own personal revenges. Always send out.”

“Oh, I won’t do it myself,” she said. “I want him, though.”

“Tonight?”

“Hell, no. Use him as long as he makes you as much as ten pence a night. Hell—do me a favor, and let people use him hard and throw him away dirty, for ten pence a night. Train him more. Let him know you’re hunting for buyers. Let him think even his worst enemies don’t want him. Play him for every penny and every laugh you can get. Just sell him to me in once piece when the game gets dull.”

Chantique was proof that there is honor among thieves and friendships between wicked women.  
“You’ll tell me about it someday?” she asked, after giving her word to return him for free when she was finished with him, rather than charging her friend a cent.

“My dear, I’ll let you watch,” Reeny purred. “Some of it, anyway.”

By the time Chantique was done with Mycroft Holmes, so was the world at large. The government didn’t care: they hadn’t even bothered to investigate Mycroft’s believed fall: They’d run the usual security switches that buried all information in new graves. They’d changed the names of the innocent and the guilty. They’d shuffled the department, and set new guards on the hidden secrets. (Anthea had survived the process with finesse and style, and was now in an even higher position within MI6…and only occasionally thought with misty regret what had happened to her prior boss…) The tabloids could no longer find a single person in London looking for any new photos of Mycroft Holmes being spit-roasted, bum-fucked, or fisted, in spite of all the great face-shots that showed his mixed pain, horror, and rapture. No one was left to speculate on a secret drug addiction, or the men and women of power to whom he might have “bent knee” among the great and near-great. Chantique handed him over naked, bruised, too-thin, and intentionally addicted to crack because, really, what was lower? He wore a choke chain collar welded on his neck a size too small to remove over his skull. A paper bag contained “his toys,” all humiliating, uncomfortable, and yet brilliantly chosen to force him into arousal.

“Here, chica. You sure you want him? We wrung him out pretty good.”

“Oh, yes,” Reeny said. She took the man’s leash, noting he didn’t meet her eye. She gave a jerk, hard, and said, “Look at me, Mycroft Holmes.”

He tried not, with the frightened helplessness of a captured animal.

She jerked again. “Now.”

Slowly, fearfully, his head turned.

She studied her new possession.

He was balding. Round faced but not fat. Short-chinned. Wide mouthed. He had big, pale blue-grey eyes—eyes already long past defiance. His mouth quivered in a way that suggested he’d half hoped that this next step was something easy, like death, or spending his years naked scrubbing floors with a toothbrush and licking the grit out of the corners, and now he’d begun to suspect that nothing so simple was planned for him.

“Who am I, Mike?”

He didn’t even fight over his name. “Irene,” he said, quietly. “Irene Adler.”

“Yes,” she said. Then, simply and without varnish, she said, “Heel, Mike.”

He blinked, once. Then, without drama, moved to squat silent just behind her left stiletto, a naked man with his arms crossed over his chest and his head hanging.

Chantique and Reeny chatted a few more minutes, as much for show as for pleasure, before parting in Chantique’s parking basement. Reeny handed Mike’s leash to the footman who rode along with her and her chauffeur, stepped into the car, and ignored the entire world until she was home.

“Is my next appointment in,” she asked her pretty lover, who served as her PA.

“In and waiting,” said the pretty lover. She examined Mike, once again squatting at his owner’s heel. “That him?”

“Yes.”

She snorted, and looked at Irene worshipfully. “I can’t believe he ever really had power over you, love. He’s…nothing.”

Irene said, with a sniff, “He’s a genius. But he’s also…” she sighed happily. “You’re right. He’s also nothing. And I intend to enjoy his nothingness.” She clucked her tongue and stepped briskly out, forcing Mike to stumble and struggle to keep up.

She dragged him down a series of back corridors of her own bordello. She’d once again found her proper place, in an old and gracious Neo-Classical mansion, with a beautiful back garden and the original servants’ quarters in the basements and attics. She tugged him down stairs, to the old kitchens, now a themed orgy hall, and on, until she reached the former butler’s apartments. There her next interview—and Mycroft’s appointed doom—awaited.

She swept in, all beauty and fashion and elegance and naked-man-on-a-leash-fighting-back-tears. It made for a glorious entrance.

The one member of her audience gaped.

She smiled a sweet, evil smile. “Greetings, Inspector Lestrade.”

He said nothing, too completely taken aback to know what to say. He’d been sitting waiting for what he’d thought would be a meeting with a new informant in Irene Adler’s elegant “place of business.” Instead he had Irene Adler at her worst in full possession of the once powerful civil servant turned notorious dog-fuckee, Mycroft Holmes. A man who’d been shown in a particularly indecent magazine servicing and being serviced by a giant Newfoundland that was well up his arse, providing dual hand jobs to two gleeful Rotweilers each with teeth set firm on the back of his neck—with one dainty dachshund lying sprawled on its back in front of him, while he submissively, tearfully sucked its wee cock and balls…and around him an audience laughed and jacked off in one of Chantique’s private clubs. The combination of luxury bling, atmospheric lighting, famous faces, and “Who Let the Dogs Out” had drawn a lot of attention online for days…

Irene smiled a shining smile at Lestrade. “I know—Bitch Queen is a good look on me, isn’t it? Or is Mikey the Bitch Queen?” She ruffled Mycroft’s hair, then swiftly, maliciously pinched the tip of his cock, making him yelp like a puppy. “He has such a sweet pee-pee,” she giggled, and pinched it again.

Greg blinked, then, unprepared and helpless, broke into a roaring laugh.

“Fuck me,” he said at last, wiping his face and eyes with a pocket handkerchief. “Fuck me. I—you…this.” He glanced frantically over at Holmes, who was once more squatted properly at heel. (Good boy, whispered a voice in the back of Lestrade’s skull. Good boy. What a nice fuck toy you’ve become…)

He made himself meet Irene Adler’s gaze. “So—I’m here by invite,” he said. “I assume you have some kind of deal for me?”

She smiled radiantly. “But of course. I hear you’re within a few years of forced promotion or retirement. I was wondering if, for certain benefits, you might consider coming to work for me a bit early.”

He frowned, still aware of Mycroft, passive, submissive, squatting at her foot.

“I don’t break the law,” he said. “I am a straight copper.”

“You are an honest copper—but in no way a straight one,” she said, with a gloating grin. “And I don’t need you to break the law for me. Indeed, I’d like you to pointedly not break the law for me, yet still do investigations. Run a bit of research. Solve the occasional mystery. All for five times the salary you’re already paid, five times current pension, free food and board—the best food in London and this splendid butler’s apartment in Mayfair—and nearly sole access to this,…rescue cur. Which you may train to any standard you like, provided you occasionally let me observe the progress you make with him. You will have access to all the resources of my business, and can put many other things on my tab.” She clicked her tongue, and pulled a reluctant Mycroft forward. “On all four feet, boy,” she said. “Head high, arse high, thighs wide.”

Mycroft forced his long body to assume the stated position, his knees bent dog-like to allow his feet to support him, his hands flat to the floor, his head struggling to rise high and look out, his bum forced up because his legs really were too long to make a convincing dog.

“Now, me, I think he’s got some greyhound in him,” she said, cheerfully. “I know he’d look good in leather harness. And as you can see, he already has a wire-prong discipline collar to keep him alert and obedient. I have contacts to keep him dog-fucked for life if you like. Or you can, er…open him up to new possibilities. Come examine the goods, Inspector. Mikey—show position. No eye contact.” She dipped a hand into her purse, and drew out a pair of loose, powdered lab gloves. “Here. You’ll want to go rooting around a bit.”

Lestrade shivered for a moment. Disbelief struggled with shock, and both fought a losing battle with fascination. When else was he going to be in a position to shove his fingers up Mycroft Holmes’ arse and have a right proper feel around? Maybe even make him whine and squirm? With the possible excuse that he’d been doing his duty making contact with a potential informant, and landed in something…amazing.

He slipped on the gloves and approached, going down on one knee beside the awkwardly poised….what?

“Try thinking of him as your pet, my dear. Good old Mikey, who licks your cock and balls every morning and does what he’s told all the rest of the day long, dear thing.” Irene was giggling. “Mikey, this may be your new keeper. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Dear Inspector Lestrade. You always did like him.”

Lestrade, felt Mycroft shudder and twitch under his palm. His face was a picture: wide eyed, terrified, and at the same time hungry.

“No, Mikey. No silence. I’ll ask again,” Irene said, giving the leash a snap that demonstrated the function of the spiked collar. “You always liked Inspector Lestrade, in a …personal, intimate way. Didn’t you?”

Mycroft proved unable to answer, gasping, and gabbling. The collar was snapped again.

“Mycroft.”

His face went all sad, and crushed velvety, the middle-aged wrinkles taking over, and his big grey eyes huge and beaten. “Yes,” he husked.”

“What did you wish he’d do to you, back then?” Irene asked, as though she had a few merry guesses.

Mycroft hesitated. Then, “Spank me hard. Take me hard.” Then, almost inaudibly, “Dominate me.”

“Recreational scolding, I think you once said?” Her voice was bright and unforgiving.

He sighed. “Yes. That.”

“And more?”

He closed his eyes and nodded. Tears balanced on his short lashes, then fall, cascading down his cheeks.

“See?” She said to Lestrade. “He even wants it.”

Lestrade was at war with himself. “Coercion, ma’am.”

“No,” she said. She patted Mycroft’s bum. “Now, if all the pressure had been applied today, not over decades, that might be another matter. But it’s not normally coercive if the only alternatives out there are just worse. Tell me how much you want to belong to the good inspector, Mikey,” she said. “Show me you’re **_consenting._ **Inspector Lestrade—I suggest you inspect.”

Lestrade licked his lips, feeling his cock fill and his balls rise. Whatever the outcome, he couldn’t pass this up.

He traced a gloved finger round Mycroft’s arsehole, then prodded it with one blunt thumb. “So you wanted a dom all the way back then,” he asked, a near whisper in his good dog’s ear.

Mike hummed miserable agreement.

“I’d have brought you down, boy. If you’d had the nerve to ask for it.”

Another sad hum, tinged with both fear and hunger. Reeny Adler sniggered, and took joy in knowing the security cams were running.

He shoved in a pair of fingers, and scissored them. His other hand crept up from below, and gripped the tip of Mycroft’s cock. He thumbed the plastic of the glove over the mushroom cap of Mycroft’s circumcised pecker.

“I’m going to use you,” Greg said, casually. “God knows, everyone else has. Why not get my wick dipped while I’m at it? And with such an understanding boss. No forms to fill out. No expectation I’ll keep my hands off your pretty, skinny rear. But—the first thing I teach all my doggies is to beg, Mikey. Let’s hear the good boy beg…”

Lestrade felt the change. Mycroft, under his hands, seemed to give up and collapse, pride already stripped away. He nuzzled into Lestrade’s shoulder, and husked, “Fuck me, Mike. Please, God, fuck me. I can take whatever you give me—and more. Just please don’t throw me away. Or I can do you. Anything you want.” Mycroft squirmed dangerously. “Fuck me up my arse, Greg-it’s yours.” He squirmed under Greg’s hands, and turned his head to lick at Greg’s neck.

Reeny took Greg’s fingers and folded them, sliding them harder into his bum. “Try him right here, I promise he’ll satisfy.”

“Why?” Greg leaned into Mike.”Why?”

“Because If you say no, she’ll give me to worse,” Mycroft said, terror visible. “Please, Greg, fuck me. For the love of mercy, I’m not strong enough for worse.”

It blotted out every bit of reason in Lestrade’s head, blending good reasons (save your friend) with the worst of reasons (fuck him while he cries and begs—and make sure he knows he owes you for the privilege…)

The DI flipped his “dog” to his back with a simple shoulder butt, sweeping his hand under Mike’s tottery legs and arms. He rolled onto his “dog,” pinning him in place. “Hold still, you…you…bitch.”

He’d wanted Mycroft years before. They could have had each other in contentment, he thought…

Instead, here they were.

He unzipped his flies, shoved Mike’s legs wide, and prodded. “I want lube,” he said. “And a condom.”

They seemed to arrive by magic, in his palm. Then Irene inched back and curled up to watch, smirking.

She was probably filming this, Lestrade thought. But in spite of his highest goals and ambitions, he’d already decided to lose this battle anyway—over fucking Mike. Over taking this job. In the mood he was in, he was actually glad she was filming. He imagined asking for a copy, and watching it on the sofa, eating popcorn while “his dog” cried over Greg’s critique and promised to do better, if Greg would just let him…

A new life-fantasy was spreading out ahead of him, a fantasy of the luxurious basement apartment and access to the back garden, with a submissive to train, and one of the best doms in the world to help him train Mikely up well.

Hell, yeah. Worth a thousand pictures.

With the condom on and the lube spread liberally, he crawled up over his new pet, found his hold, and pressed in. The head of his cock popped through Mycroft’s tight hole.

Mycroft whined.

Greg couldn’t help it. He laughed—a warm, slow, deep villain-laugh. He rolled his hips, supple, inout-inout. He snapped forward, hard.

Mike yipped in pain.

Greg lunged in his drive, snap-jerk.

Mike panted, grunted, his eyes rolled up.

Greg reached down and grabbed Mike’s cock. He squeezed and tugged. “Slut,” he whispered. “You love this, don’t you? Even the collar and the leash and the bitch who already owns you.”

Mike turned red, and turned his face away.

Greg leaned forward and bit his nipple.

“Yes,” Mike husked, actually in tears. “Yes. I love it. I love being your bitch. Oh, God. Make me, Greg.”

Mike was responsive, or faked it well, and Greg found he didn’t really care which it was—natural desire or drugs and beaten-in training. Either way he wanted what lay under him humbled and submissive. His brain went white, his body went on autopilot, his mouth spat insults between brutal kisses as he took over Mycroft’s mouth. By the time he’d wrung an orgasm out of Mycroft’s dick he’d reached his own high point himself, and screamed his way down the slow glide to completion, before lying spent on his new pet.

“I take it you liked it?” Reeny was amused.

“Could be,” he answered, panting.

“Then it’s a deal?” she asked.

“Deal,” he said, then said. “I’ll turn in my resignation Friday.”

“You’ll call in your resignation now.”

He didn’t even bother arguing, just reached down, pulled out his cell phone, and called it in, waiting to be transferred to his superior officer without taking even a second to climb off Mycroft’s soft stomach. Instead he snapped photos of his obviously ravished dog-then hung up the phone. He got up, sharply ordered Mycroft to “stay,” then helped Irene up. “You’ll send the contract down with dinner. Straight and legal, no breaking the law for you. My salary times five. Rooms are mine for the duration. Access to all business amenities. Etcetera, etcetera. Dog is mine. Pets allowed.”

“Yes, yes,” Reeny drawled, not really bothering with him. Instead she looked at Mycroft, slack-limbed and used on the oriental carpet of the old butler’s quarters. She smiled to herself. Lestrade had a monster of a prick, he fucked like a jackhammer, and he had Mycroft securely in his hard, demanding fist. This was going to be good... “Certainly…and if you want changes, let me know. Different rooms? So long as you’re on one of my premises. Oh—contact my PA. Find out about our gym.” She imagined watching him master his pet after a few months body building and stamina improvement and nearly swooned...She stood, and nodded…before swanning out the door.

Some things go perfectly. Some even better. CCTV showed her the conquest and subjugation of her old rival daily, without her having to do a thing. She owned a new, pleased investigator. And her grudge was paying off.

She left silently, as Greg began the slow investigation of the flat and the rough domination of his pet.

Reeny expected good things from these two—and when they began to deliver, she couldn’t have been happier. She was a woman who held a grudge well—and paid it off better. Often without having to do any of the hard lifting herself, which was just how she liked it.


End file.
